| I will no longer be looking for words that I cannot find
|
| To tell you old things with the new dress
|
| To tell you about the emptiness that, as usual, I have inside
|
| And give birth to the mouse living on memories
|
| Playing with my days, with time ...
|
| Or maybe you want me to say I have shorter hair
|
| Or that the ports for my ships are almost closed;
|
| I always talk a lot, but I don't have any faiths yet
|
| I don't want to boast of myself or my life
|
| Forced as toes ...
|
| You know these things because we are all the same
|
| And we die of the same evils every day
|
| Because we are all alone and it is our destiny
|
| Attempting clumsy flights of action or speech
|
| Flying like the turkey flies ...
|
| I can't help it and you can do less
|
| I am old with pride, your breasts move me
|
| And I am almost ashamed of this word
|
| But there is only one life, we do not waste anything
|
| In tributes to the people or to the dream ...
|
| Evenings are the same, but every night is different
|
| And you hardly notice the dispersed energy
|
| To search for the faces that have forgotten you
|
| Wearing threadbare clothes, good for any eventuality
|
| Pursuing science or sin ...
|
| You know all this and you know where it begins
|
| The grace or death tedium of living in the province
|
| Because we are all the same, we are bad and good
|
| And we have the same evils, we are cowards and proud
|
| Wise, false, sincere ... assholes!
|
| But where will you go? |
| But where have you already gone?
|
| I give you, if you want, this already used boredom:
|
| Keep it in my memory, but it is not capital
|
| You will notice by yourself, not even after a long time
|
| That the boredom of another is not valid ...
|
| On the other hand, you see, I still write songs
|
| And I pay for my house, I pay for my illusions
|
| I pretend to have understood that to live is to meet
|
| Having sleep, appetite, having children, eating
|
| Drinking, reading, loving… scratching! |